It was straight up terror when we listened to a man we knew for all of 30 seconds tell us that our baby had High Risk, B-Cell, Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia and would require 2.5 years of chemotherapy treatment. It was an out of body experience, a numbness you cannot begin to describe, and you would never want anyone to actually understand. For the 1096 days to follow was another emotion that seems to linger longer than the rest.
Grief.
God tells us that there's a time and even a season for it in Ecclesiastes 3:4, "a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance."
This was a whole new kind of grief, our son was still here with us, but the life we had dreamed of as new parents was lost. His entire early childhood years would be spent in a clinic, hospital, or the isolation of our home. He would be in pain, lots of pain, he would suffer. We would be the ones inflicting the suffering. We would sign papers that allowed for life-saving poison to run almost steadily through his body for these treatment years. And of course every day we carried the hope that all of this would mean a longer life with him. This little family that we had just started was going to be nothing like we ever thought it would be, not just different, but awful. And it was AWFUL the majority of the time.
I remember thinking many times throughout treatment years: "when Trevett is four, this will all be over..."
He's four.
As I'm writing this, he is wearing his birthday crown at preschool and sharing lollipops with his friends!
Trevett's first birthday was sandwiched between an investigative biopsy and diagnosis day. It feels strange to say we are celebrating, but what do we say? "remembering"? "acknowledging"? What is it? The grief stops in for a little party every year, even without an invitation.
I tend to be known as a Positive Polly, to the point where there are times that I even annoy myself. But here's the real deal of it all:
When we walk the inevitable and promised hardships of life, no matter the severity, there is always a choice. It's the same options every time: we can choose to dwell in anger, doubt and fear; letting it consume us or to lean into Jesus. We can trust in His promises and rest in the peace that only He can give.
While I grieve the childhood and parenthood we lost, I am also reminded that without cancer:
I would never have spent as much time with Trevett as I was able to - he required fulltime 24/7 care from his mama, and my husband worked to make that happen for him.
I would never have been able to hold my boy in my arms as much as I did. Our first hospital stay I held him for 10 days straight, only stopping for a bathroom break or shower. The following stays were not much different.
My son would never have been privy to being loved as much as he has been by the medical professionals that have surrounded him each day.
I would never have been a part of the amazing group of women that no one ever wants to be a part of, "The Cancer Mom Club".
I would never have seen the depth of my husband's ability to love me through my very worst of days.
I would never have opened a shop called "WiscoCarpenterWife" where I would be able to serve other families walking through hardship.
I would have missed many opportunities to witness the power and sovereignty of God - and see how He can give purpose to the very worst of our pain.
Today, on Diagnosis Day I am praising God for all that He has done! I'm choosing gratitude for the blessings that came because of the the hardship. My son is a 1096 day cancer survivor, but more importantly his future is Heaven! All the Glory and the Honor to the Son!
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